At precisely the hour agreed upon, a small motor brougham pulled up outside the door of the Hotel de Flandres and its occupant—whom ninety-nine men out of a hundred would at once, unhesitatingly, have declared to be a doctor in moderate practice—pushed open the swing doors of the restaurant and made his way to the desk. He was of medium height; he wore a frock-coat—a little frayed; gray trousers which had not been recently pressed; and thick boots.
“I understand that one of your waiters requires my attendance,” he said, in a tone not unduly raised but still fairly audible. “I am Dr. Gilette.”
“Dr. Gilette,” Antoine repeated, slowly.
“And number Double-Four,” the doctor murmured.
Antoine descended from his desk.
“But certainly, Monsieur!” he said. “The poor fellow declares that he suffers. If he is really ill, he must go. It sounds brutal, but what can one do? We have so few rooms here, and so much business. Monsieur will come this way?”
Antoine led the way from the cafe into a very smelly region of narrow passages and steep stairs.
“It is to be arranged?” Antoine whispered, as they ascended.
“Without a doubt,” the doctor answered. “Were there spies in the cafe?”
“Two,” Antoine answered.